The wind was colder up here.

  Kael had crouched down, forearms resting on his knees, his breath still uneven from the effort. His skin clung to the stone, sweat evaporating too quickly in the thin air, yet he stayed where he was, unmoving, eyes fixed on the void below.

  Lucanis removed his tunic without a word.

  He rolled it with a sharp motion, tucked it into his belt, then stepped forward to the edge. His gaze briefly met Kael’s. Not a word passed between them—but there was that spark in his eyes, like a race begun without a signal.

  And then he launched himself upward.

  Lucanis climbed as if he had been doing this his entire life.

  His long arms found their holds without hesitation.

  His feet landed with precision, always on the most reliable stone.

  He didn’t look toward the summit.

  He watched the marks Kael had left—and sometimes, instinctively, he guided someone else.

  Kael lowered his gaze.

  Althéa was still down there, standing back. She hadn’t moved yet.

  Her bow on her back, her tunic still fastened.

  Then, slowly, she did something unexpected.

  She raised both hands.

  And slapped her cheeks.

  Twice. Hard.

  A sharp sound—red flaring across her cheekbones.

  She lifted her head.

  And began to climb.

  A knot tightened in Kael’s chest.

  She wasn’t copying his gesture. She had taken it for herself.

  This wasn’t imitation anymore.

  It was a decision.

  Her movements were different from Lucanis’s.

  Less confident. Less precise.

  Her hands didn’t always find the best holds. Her feet slipped sometimes.

  But she held on.

  And more than that—

  He could see her believing in it.

  She said nothing. Not a complaint. Not a question.

  But she listened to Lucanis, who murmured advice at regular intervals.

  He guided her calmly, steadily. He spoke for both of them.

  And she climbed.

  Kael didn’t take his eyes off her.

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  Sometimes he glanced at Lucanis, who was gaining ground with an efficiency that was almost frustrating—fluid, methodical, driven, as if he had something to prove. Or something to make up for.

  Maybe to him.

  But Althéa—

  That was something else.

  He watched her struggle with the stone.

  Fight the vertigo. Fight the instability. Fight herself.

  And keep going.

  She wasn’t cheating.

  She wasn’t posturing.

  She was climbing.

  There was nothing arrogant left in her movements.

  Nothing hostile.

  Just raw concentration—so intense it made her almost unrecognizable.

  She wasn’t looking for his gaze.

  But he could see only her.

  Every time she raised a hand toward a hold, he held his breath.

  Every time she slipped by half an inch, he felt his fingers tighten against the stone.

  Every time she moved upward, he wondered how someone like her had decided not to give up.

  And he found no answer.

  But he didn’t need one.

  He watched her climb.

  And for the first time, he didn’t see a noble student.

  Not a rival. Not a nuisance.

  Just Althéa.

  And she was climbing toward him—but for herself.

  Kael didn’t move.

  He followed every one of Althéa’s motions, every hesitant foothold, every surge of tension in her taut back. Her tunic clung in places, torn at the elbows. And her hair—that almost unreal white, pure like cold ash—whipped around her face.

  A living tangle, stirred by the gusts.

  A striking contrast to her amethyst eyes, locked onto the rock, locked onto her goal.

  She advanced through sheer will.

  Not with Lucanis’s ease.

  But with that restrained grace—rigid, proud, hard-won.

  Kael studied the lines of her arms, the subtle contractions of her legs with each shift of balance. She was fighting the rock the way one fights oneself.

  Lucanis was climbing higher.

  Steady. Efficient.

  Kael watched him for a moment.

  Lucanis’s sharp green eyes sometimes lifted toward him, carrying that strange intensity—not judgment, but something closer to inquiry. As if he were trying to understand Kael from the inside.

  To see through him.

  His broad, clean-cut jaw remained set.

  But his movements were loose. Certain.

  No wasted gesture. No display. Just discipline. Calm.

  And beneath it—perhaps… a silent race.

  Lucanis was nearing the summit.

  Kael leaned forward slightly.

  Extended a hand.

  Lucanis saw it.

  And refused with a brief shake of his head, without bitterness.

  Not out of pride.

  Not to push Kael away.

  But because he wanted to finish alone.

  To grow without a guide.

  To climb for himself—not to be pulled the rest of the way up.

  Kael respected the choice. He stepped back.

  Lucanis hauled his torso over the ledge. His face, slick with sweat, was etched with effort. He was panting—but his eyes were shining.

  “Well done,” Kael breathed.

  Lucanis didn’t answer right away.

  He was already looking down.

  “She’s coming,” he said simply.

  Kael turned.

  Althéa was almost there. Within reach.

  She was tackling the final meters—the most treacherous ones.

  Where muscles are exhausted, where the rock turns deceitful, brittle.

  She knew it. He could see it in the way her body slowed.

  But she didn’t falter.

  And yet—

  A mistake.

  A hand placed too fast. A damp stone.

  She slipped.

  Her body pitched outward. Her legs searched for a hold—too late.

  She fell in a sharp drop.

  Kael lunged forward—pure instinct, a visceral reflex.

  His hand closed around her wrist.

  They hung there, suspended, a second frozen in the wind.

  Their skin touched.

  His palm—rough, burning.

  Her wrist—slender, trembling, but strong.

  She lifted her head.

  Their gazes met.

  Black.

  Amethyst.

  Silence.

  Kael didn’t speak.

  Neither did Althéa.

  But he was holding her. And she didn’t resist.

  He pulled gently. Not brutally. He didn’t haul her up like a sack.

  He guided her.

  He helped her pull herself up.

  When she reached the ledge, she stayed kneeling for a moment, back bowed, breath ragged. Her white hair fell over her face, but Kael could see her shoulders shaking.

  Not with fear.

  Not with pain.

  Just the echo of what she had nearly brushed against.

  Lucanis had stepped away. He left them alone.

  The sky was bleeding into orange, pink, indigo.

  Twilight descended—slow, silent—like a sacred veil over their reclaimed summit.

  Kael watched her.

  She didn’t thank him.

  Didn’t say a word.

  But she didn’t move away either.

  And he, without understanding why, without trying to name what he was seeing, thought only this:

  Beautiful.